


So We Meet Again, My Heartache

by thegrumblingirl



Series: Royal OT3 AUs [7]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: (very light), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Devotion, F/M, Jessamine meets Daud in Karnaca well before the events of Dishonored, Light Dom/sub, Multi, One-Sided Relationship, Pining, Serkonan Holiday, grumble watches old Hollywood movies with Gregory Peck and gets terrible ideas, in that they're apart for ten years, to protect Jessamine, while Daud becomes the Knife of Dunwall, wow I'm just giving everything away here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2020-07-29 16:09:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20085031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegrumblingirl/pseuds/thegrumblingirl
Summary: In 1824, Jessamine Kaldwin and Daud meet, under spurious circumstances, in Karnaca. The chance encounter should change both their lives.Basically, a Roman Holiday AU featuring a lost princess and a very grumpy assassin.





	1. The Lonely Princess (Marked Man)

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo this is what happens when I think about sticking Daud into Gregory Peck roles... I end up doing it :D
> 
> Spotify playlist: [link](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/63oF4WsZW57zrdNrCH1Oeq?si=-dORD5aOQQaqaBP8El9SxA)

The passage to Serkonos — and its capital city, Karnaca: the Jewel of the South — had been long, and quiet. Sparing a thought for Corvo’s nerves and ever-present vigilant gaze, perhaps mercifully so. The proudest ship of her father’s fleet had brought her here, and two more vessels as escort and entourage, both veritable floating armouries; in the event the infamous pirates that sailed these waters ‘got any ideas,’ as the bosun expressed himself. Jessamine had asked Corvo near-constant questions about them, wanting to hear as many stories as she could about his days serving in the Serkonan Navy, wanting to make use of this time they had that was not entirely free from prying eyes or ears, but which they spent in the presence of maids and servants she was confident enough she could trust. It was an improvement over the suffocating company of courtiers and noble ladies all wishing to ingratiate themselves with the Princess for a token in Imperial politics she was hardly yet privy to.

Much to her chagrin, Corvo had held firm except for the barest of details when others might hear; doubtlessly so as not to foul up a promise he had made her father, to keep her mind away from such ‘gruesome tales.’ As if she were not one day meant to succeed him on the throne, as if she were not the one who would one day receive reports of riots, fights, and, if all diplomacy failed, battle scores and war. Corvo knew this, and yet he kept his vow. What an honourable man, she sometimes thought, despairingly.

But then, there were the moments they were truly alone, when honour and protocol stood no chance against the way he looked at her. He had made promises to her, too, in secret and in name, and he renewed them, whispers against her lips, every day at dawn.

And now, they had arrived — finally.

Corvo had gone over the itinerary with her for what must have been the hundredth time just hours before they reached port. Every day, on a schedule, with her escort already staffed, nearly every _step_ she’d take already decided. And she knew he would spend his nights already scoping out the places she’d be the next day, as was his duty. She’d barely see him, except hovering just at her shoulder, watching over her. When he did, he didn’t see her, not really. Oh, he always knew where she was, registered every movement when they were in public. But when they were, she was the Princess, his principal. Not his confidante, not his lover. And he was her bodyguard: she would admit to that same blindness, when the constraints of protocol and position were laid upon her as well. He was her Royal Protector, and what love she held for him was eclipsed by his responsibility, his duty of care for her safety — and by pride. For all those who would like to see him kicked back into the dirt, those who would hiss that Serkonos was the home of none but whores and merchants, they had to bow and call him Lord Attano. Nobles that were barely members of the royal household called him Corvo to insult him; albeit he insisted that the servants do. Courtiers, if they knew, would count it as another strike against him: to call it weakness or dishonour, it would hardly matter to them to make the distinction. To her, it was humility, but not born from an understanding of his own inferiority. Merely from kindness.

The journey had been liberating, in a sense, but also stifling; she was happy to have solid ground under her feet again and to have more space to breathe than the length of her cabin. She’d asked Corvo just the night before whether there was _any_ chance of them ‘escaping,’ of simply spending some time in the city, together, for Jessamine to see where he grew up. For him to show her his home — he would protest that Dunwall was his home, now, but they both knew the distinction.

He’d told her they couldn’t do that, not here. She was the _Princess_.

It upset her, even though she knew it shouldn’t, she knew it was to keep her safe… but she had been so excited when her father had agreed to let her come here, to let her experience this part of the world she’d heard so much about (not all from Corvo, as he tended to be secretive about his childhood, even with her). But now… it all seemed so pointless. Everyone spoke of the education this would be to her, but what kind of education could it be if she was to be fenced in, herded from place to place, from diplomatic meeting to social event; where everyone she met was doing so for the same ends as everyone in Dunwall, to further their own agenda and standing? Why pretend to broaden her horizons if she would not be allowed to decide, to move for herself?

All those doubts were weighing on her mind as they were making ready to disembark, and it felt as though it was all rushing forward, into this one moment, the seconds before she would set foot on Serkonan ground for the first time. Time seemed to still as she looked down, her booted foot mere inches from the rough sandstone of the docks. She wanted…. to escape. Just for one day. But Corvo was behind her, as he always was, so how could she? Time unwound and the bustle and sound that surrounded her came flooding back. She stepped down.

The docks were busy with sailors and guards and on the end, she spied the envoy sent to collect her and Corvo and take them to the Palace. Just then, along the starboard side, their luggage was being sent down on winches; and a sound like a harpy’s cry rang through the air as one of them broke, sending crates and a trunk towards the pier. There was a great rush as people moved as if to catch what was falling. It was Corvo’s trunk that fell, Jessamine realised, and one of the sailors called to them.

“I’m so sorry, Lord Attano! The winch gave out; I don’t know how, we just serviced it last month!”

“It’s fine,” Corvo called back, moving towards his things, to ascertain his trunk had not opened from the force of the impact and spilt its contents across the docks for all to see. It hadn’t, but it had industriously lodged itself between the ship’s hull and the planks of the pier, and now it was stuck, two grown men already tearing at it to pry it loose. Jessamine took a step back. Then another. There was a wall of sailors between her and the guards, between her and the envoy — between her and Corvo. The sailors paid her no heed, not out of disrespect nor for courtly protocol, but because they had learnt not to stare at her for the way Corvo’s hand itched towards his pistol when they paid more attention to her than to the rafters they were climbing and the sails they were holding against the wind. She watched as he helped the men, instructed them to wait for a gentle wave to come in with the tide, for it to sway the ship closer and away again, and then to pull.

Precious seconds passed, and when Corvo’s luggage was freed and he turned back to say a word to her — she was gone.

“Your Highness?” he said, confused at first, but not too worried, expecting her to have stepped aside to let the sailors work. Or perhaps she was already speaking with the envoy. No.

Where was she? Oh by the Void, where had she gone?

* * *

Jessamine was grateful for the looseness of her travel clothing — just as finely tailored, but made of lighter garb than what she customarily wore in Gristol — and for the hood her father’s seamstress had afforded her, to protect her hair against the salt and rough gusts at sea. She pulled it up and around her face as she hurried along the docks, for once not cursing her diminutive stature, ducking and weaving between sailors and soldiers all focused on doing their work as expediently as possible. The arrival of a Princess drew too much attention; especially since they should not have landed at an ordinary port. But they had been early, and the tide in the bay had been too low to take the Dauntless to the ducal palace’s private dock, and now here they were, hurrying to get out of the way of cargo ships and merchants. Smugglers, too, if Jessamine’s eyes did not deceive her as one captain surreptitiously handed a guard a pouch that looked to be filled generously with coin. Coin gratefully stamped with her father’s face, not hers, she considered as she quickened her steps.

Corvo might have shown her numerous maps of the city and its major districts, and she had studied them in some detail, but being plunged suddenly from a cartographer’s perspective into that of a bird sitting on a lamppost, she only had a vague notion of leaving this particular part of the Campo Seta dockyards and making her way deeper into the district. She knew that the Addermire Institute lay out in the bay behind her, and the Palace to the West, out on Point Abele. Point Batista completed the half circle of the bay on the other side, but it was too far to be so much as wished for. In truth, she longed to see it. Batista was the old mining district, covered in silver dust and misery — it was where Corvo had grown up from boyhood. Jessamine wagered that she knew as much about those years as her father’s royal historians did; but she resented the Academy more than she did Corvo for stealing what he held so close to his chest and dragging it into the light for all to see when it should have been her he told, first. Instead he had been whisked away from her right after her choosing, to have his official history taken and mended where the rags and tatters were too offensive for polite society; and returned to her with new clothes, a new blade, a ribbon for his ‘unruly’ hair, and a new title that even while fuelled mostly by her desire to rebel she had no trouble believing he had neither expected nor, fairly likely, wanted.

For now, however, her immediate concern was to remain undiscovered, and to find one of the edges of that web of side streets and alleys, to tug at to help unravel it. She would worry about the guards later. Once her absence was discovered, Corvo would first attempt to find her himself, but never stray too far from where she’d disappeared. Once the sailors knew, the envoy would have to be told; and the Captain of the Grand Guard travelling with them would barely need half an hour to send his men swarming out across the city looking for her. No-one would seek to soon admit to the public that the Princess of the Isles had been lost barely three steps into her visit to Serkonos, and there would be time until her first scheduled appearance the next day. She ought to return by then — not that she had a plan _h__ow_. Now, there was only her heart thundering in her ears as she did the unspeakable. To abandon her Protector… in Dunwall, this would have spelt her certain doom. Here, in a city that smelt so enticingly of the sea and spices, Jessamine felt as though she had found a world brimming with possibility.

* * *

Legitimate or not, people liked to lay claim to things — to places, to people. Men claimed their wives, their families; factory owners their workers (and their children)… And then, there were the gangs. Their bosses, pick between their teeth or hammer slung over their shoulder, they all claimed their little corner of dirt on the streets. Karnaca was no different from anywhere else, and Daud had heard so many of them say it so many times.

‘This is my city.’

They all believed it. Give them one ripped corner of the map, they took the whole quarter, or so they liked to think. From the avenue that belonged to the locksmiths, across the way to the bootleggers that belonged to Jack Blanchard; they didn’t have a damned block between them, but they all ruled the world as they knew it. Usually, that little delusion preceded shattering fingers or kneecaps with the aforementioned hammer or a vise conveniently attached to a workbench. Usually, it meant betrayal, greed, someone taking what had never been destined to be theirs — the powers that be being those whose to take it was at the time, however tenuously. Allegiances shifted every day, the Grand Guard officer you bribed tomorrow would come to lay a baton on your neck the week after, and in between there were rats and bloodflies all whispering secrets in your rival’s ear.

The only thing Daud wanted to claim, to know that it was his and his alone… was not wealth, was not power, was not to dispense judgement.

It was indifference to what the world thought to demand of him.

Below, he heard hurried steps. Heeled boots, a woman’s gait. What could anyone be running from at this hour?

It was idle curiosity that sent him to the edge of the roof to watch. The woman’s steps slowed, and he could see she must have been on her feet for a while, as her breath came heavy and, as she rounded a corner and leaned against the cool sandstone wall of a building, she removed the hood of her coat to brush dark strands of hair from her forehead, come loose from her rather severe style. Only aristocrats believed in nearly strangling themselves with their own scalp, and those were no rags she was dressed in. Daud tilted his head. And she was headed into _this_ part of town? Today, of all days: the day all of Karnaca was in a tizzy due to the impending arrival of a ship from Dunwall. A royal vessel.

Of course, on the other side of the canal lay Cyria Gardens, but the North of Campo Seta was no place for a high-born lady — or, at the very least, one with money in her pocket, unless she wanted to lose it at the Baths. The Albarca was by far one of Daud’s least favorite dead drops, but certainly the place to go for shady backroom deals and a swim — not that he’d ever be caught in naught but a towel _anywhere_. That, and the bartender was too afraid of him to mix a proper drink.

But that was only part of the problem. The other, somewhat more pressing issue was that, no matter what time of day or night, there were thieves lurking in the shadows, just waiting for someone in sufficiently finely tailored clothing to come through; to relieve them of their pursestrings, if not their life.

Perhaps he was bored, perhaps he was still too curious for his own good, but he decided to move ahead to see who might be waiting for her. If they were one of his, at least he knew he'd be getting a cut of the winnings — and if it wasn't, well. That was not necessarily an obstacle. He clenched his fist and the world stilled, down to the beating of a bloodfly’s wings. He enjoyed these seconds that he could spend and watch everything around him before he made his decision. He could change direction, should the need arise to throw off pursuers, or choose a better vantage point. He could even pluck bullets out of the air — thin air, to those ignorant of his powers. Below him, the woman was frozen in moving her shawl to her shoulders. Perhaps it would be him waiting for her.

Transversing across the roofs, Daud was hardly surprised to find that he was right in finding someone waiting — he was, however, surprised to find that one of his orders had been disobeyed. Ricardo was a brute and a liar. The latter was, on most days, far more of an inconvenience to Daud than the first. Yet, the trail of assaults Ricardo left in his wake had been enough to get him banned from the road and fifty lashes on his back. Too many broken noble noses and collarbones brought down the heavy heeled boots of the Grand Guard much faster than a string of stolen coin pouches and threats. And then, last month, one of the gentry who had passed through had wound up dead. Daud should have killed him just for that — it was only Paolo’s interference that had saved Richardo’s neck. Paolo had brought him in, said he’d deal with him his way. Daud scoffed and snarled. Dealt with him, alright.

He clenched his fist again.

He heard the grind of bones breaking as Ricardo’s left leg gave out underneath him, Daud coming down on him at barely an angle. Bone tore through muscle, and Richardo’s wet, muffled cry was only cut short by the wind knocked out of his lungs when Daud brought up a knee as they both went to ground. Ricardo would have to get himself to a physician quick, to get that seen to.

“What did I tell you,” Daud growled, his left hand fisted in the collar of Ricardo’s coarse linen shirt that was common for this district, and his right on the hilt of the dagger he kept in his belt. “No outside runs for you until you have yourself under control. Failing that…”

He trailed off. Ricardo knew what.

“A walk in the canal,” Ricardo managed to breathe against Daud’s knuckles pressing into his throat.

“Aye,” Daud answered. He pressed harder. “So why are you out here?”

Now, Ricardo lifted his head as far as he could off the stone pavement — less than an inch, but enough to look Daud in the eye.

“You’re not the boss of me,” he sneered through the pain and dust. “The Magistrate is. And you’re just a contractor.”

Daud’s fingers curled tighter. “For now. Might be they realise when I bring them your head.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

Ricardo always had had delusions of grandeur, Daud thought. Far more than bravery. Something about the size of his breeches, he guessed, that let him think he was _important_, when he himself barely ever looked further than his own balls.

“We’ll see about that,” Daud promised darkly, but instead of cutting him simply drew back his fist, and knocked him out cold. One punch would do — he was not angry, merely disappointed.

In that moment, a door opened to his right.

Out stepped the well-kept lady, and she stopped when she realised the tableau before her. The blood on the ground, the stench of it. The way Daud’s teeth were bared and the blood on his knuckles, too.

This close, he finally knew who she was.


	2. Parce Que Tu Crois

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It would have been difficult not to know who she was, Daud surmised, what with her face in the Gazette every day for the past two weeks, announcing her arrival ahead of her father’s, for a diplomatic visit occasioned by the expansion of the Royal Conservatory, in its purpose dedicated to the late Empress, her mother, five years after its inauguration.
> 
> Five feet across from Daud, stood the Princess of the Empire of the Isles. Jessamine Kaldwin. And she had not yet run away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2! Daud has finally recognised Jessamine and now must decide what to do... Jessamine, meanwhile, is far less frightened than she is intrigued. Somewhere in Campo Seta, her Royal Protector is experiencing what you might call the Corvo Tingle.

It would have been difficult not to know who she was, Daud surmised, what with her face in the Gazette every day for the past two weeks, announcing her arrival ahead of her father’s, for a diplomatic visit occasioned by the expansion of the Royal Conservatory, in its purpose dedicated to the late Empress, her mother, five years after its inauguration.

Five feet across from Daud, stood the Princess of the Empire of the Isles. Jessamine Kaldwin. And she had not yet run away.

“Who are you?” she asked — in a voice that heralded interest far more than fear, and Daud thought she must be soft in the head in the way sheltered people often were. They knew of the evils out in the guttered shadows, but they had never felt them. They lived in the light, behind high walls; and for as long as Daud had been crawling over those high walls to expose their secrets, he had known that some of them could not fathom evil when it stood before them, as it was drawn to that light like moth to a flame. They knew it but did not believe in it, and when they saw it, they were paralysed. Transfixed. Just as she was now.

“This man was going to rob you,” said Daud instead. And worse, he added privately.

She tilted her head and gestured at Ricardo, unconscious and possibly bleeding out underneath him. Daud realised he was still straddling him, and got up, stepping away from the body — away from her.

“So you protected me?”

“Had it been anyone else, I would not have bothered. Him, not you,” he forestalled her drawing breath. “He pissed me off.”

“In that case: thank you, I suppose,” she said, subtly raising her chin as if conscious of the difference between them now that he stood, fairly towering over her. He was by no means the tallest man he knew, but she was short and slender; and yet her eyes severe and the tilt of her mouth at the inconvenience of his presence, stubborn. For royalty, her reactions were remarkably human. “Or are you going to rob me in his stead?”

“You should leave,” Daud grated, thinking, for the moment, of nothing but washing his hands of the situation; even as at the back of his mind, the questions were piling up. What was the _Princess_ doing here? Evidently, she had arrived earlier than anticipated, by a day or more, and now she had escaped her protectors — her Protector, no less — and had come roaming around the backstreets of Karnaca? What in the Void was the girl playing at? Of course, if she was lost, there was profit to be made. Perhaps he should not be too hasty in turning her out. Others certainly wouldn’t be. But he thought of the heat this would bring, the guardsmen tearing through every quarter, and even with the Magistrate to contend with, he could think of a dozen more worthwhile things to be done with his time before tonight. Heat, he could most ill afford, if he was to succeed in what he had begun — more heat than the Serkonan sun brought even on a cloudy day, anyhow.

“Will he be found?” she interrupted his contradicting thoughts.

“Probably,” was all Daud gave her, and she frowned.

“Do you care nothing for your men?” she asked, and Daud had to fight not to scoff. Trust a high-born lady to ask for his moral ideals before the sharpness of his blade or the number of knives on him.

“I did not recruit him,” said he. “Nor is he my problem after I gave him an order he willingly disobeyed.” _You must know that_, he barely restrained himself from adding. If she had not yet surmised he knew who she was, perhaps he could keep up the illusion a while longer. Just long enough for him to decide whether he wanted her out of his sight.

“And so you would disgrace yourself,” she challenged, and although he had already half turned his back on her to leave, he stopped short now. Slowly, he turned, and found her eye. He held her gaze as he moved back towards her, and drew apart his shoulders as he loomed over her. He was close enough to her now to count the lashes on her eye, and even though she did not shrink away, he saw the tremor in her hand.

“What do you know of grace,” he murmured low, so low that the sound barely carried between them and hung in the air; yet it echoed in the silence around them, and when she realised her eyes did widen.

“Of none between thieves,” she said, and there was steel in her voice he had not known to expect. She was smart enough to be afraid of him, and yet not _too_ frightened, it seemed. There was, too, that Dunwall accent that would have given her away any day even if her face had not, that accent that was one of the main reasons why he would never have returned to the Academy of Natural Philosophy, and that was only ever so pronounced in those who barely spoke with anyone who did not torture their consonants this way. Anyone outside of Dunwall Tower, that was. As far removed has her father had once been from the throne, Jessamine Kaldwin had practically been born on the daïs.

It showed.

He simply could not let on that he had recognised it — had recognised her. For all she knew, he had never set foot in Dunwall. For all she knew, he did not bother reading the papers.

“If that’s how it is,” he griped, taking her up on the gambit, and turned to leave. This time, without hesitation.

“Where are you going?”

He smirked. He’d barely gotten six feet far.

“What is it to you? I am but a thief,” he said, and kept walking.

To her credit, she did not come running after him. Instead, she called at his retreating back, “And what if you kept me company a while?”

Now, he did halt. He turned, but only a little. It would not do to make the same journey backwards twice just because she was a princess. He did not answer, only looked at her.

“Show me the way, and I’ll reward you handsomely.” Dangling money before him as reward: typical — not merely of Dunwall, but of nobles the Isles over.

“Do you have in mind where you are going?” he asked, and it was in mean spirit. The only quarter that lay beyond this was Cyria. And there, she would be recognised for certain. He doubted that she would be foolish enough to seek out the Royal Conservatory. And she could hardly return to the docks.

“I would wish to see Batista,“ she said, and it was his turn to be caught out.

_Batista?_ Daud was no fool and he had done his reading upon his return from his travels. Her Royal Protector, Corvo Attano, by all accounts what would have once amounted to a street rat, had won the damned Blade Verbena at a barefaced sixteen years old, and three years later had been appointed as the young Princess’ bodyguard when time came for her to choose. And he was from that old mining district. Daud had never been, but he’d read that there was even a plaque. The Duke seemed very proud of that son of the silver hills.

Before he could tell her the distance was too far, and their means of travel — on foot, by carriage, by _skiff_ — all far too conspicuous, she shook her head.

“I know it’s impossible,” she said. “But it’s where I would want to go, had I the choice, and different company.”

No doubt she would want Attano to show her around, rather than him. He wondered: would she deem it a betrayal, if she went to see it for herself? There were rumours about them that even Daud, as averse as he was to any sort of idle gossip, had not been able to avoid completely. Some called it an ‘open secret.’ Daud cared little for such pronouncements. For a long moment, then, he did not answer. At length, he whistled. From around a corner, a young boy came running. Daud slipped him a coin and a word, and he pointed towards where Ricardo was still lying in the dust. The boy did not spare a glance for his companion, and instead took off running.

“So you _have_ a heart,” she probed, and he did not dignify it with a reply. Her eyes searched his face for answers, found none, and instead turned to another question. “So where else can I go?”

“Are you in need of a guide,” he asked, “or a distraction?”

He imagined princesses were told never to shrug, but she was doing a fair impression of it now. She also had to know, he thought, that she need not explain how far she was from home. Who she was hoping he’d think she was, however, he could hardly ask. At least not before he had made up his mind about her.

“We’ll call it both.”

“Fine.” He thought a moment. “I suppose you could go to Aventa, across the Grand Canal. It’s perhaps not rich enough,” he drew up a brow and gestured at her clothing, “but then, it will do.”

She drew her hand down one the fabric of one of her sleeves at his words, a show of self-consciousness one should perhaps expect from a young princess not yet crowned, no matter that she handled herself remarkably. Quickly, however, she removed her hand and raised them slightly instead.

“And what do you suggest should I do to make myself appear less ‘rich,’” she asked.

Daud did his best not to crow at the idea of royalty asking his advice in finery. Nonetheless, he gestured, “Roll them up,” at her sleeves. “Lose the cuffs and—”

_Show some skin_, he’d very nearly said, and caught himself in time. Why, he did not know. Matters of courtesy hardly mattered to someone like him. To mark the unfinished sentence complete, he shrugged. “Loosen up,” he said.

“Very well.” She did as he’d suggested, undid the cufflinks on her shirt, a rather more finely woven silk, and experimentally rolled the sleeves up her forearms, revealing fine wrists yet unbroken by labour she did not know and skin barely touched by the Ocean’s sun, it seemed, though her voyage had to have been long and exposed to the elements; even her, on that ship. They could hardly have kept her below decks for all of it, in fear of sullying her noble complexion. Besides that, visitors from Gristol often had the habit of burning, rather than darkening.

“Better?” she asked.

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak — not for something so menial as desire, but rather the acute absurdity of having just instructed the Princess of the Empire to _loosen up_. It would not do forfeit the game now by giving himself away. So he made a show of assessing her state of dress with his eyes, up and down and back again, and nodded a second time.

“And will you guide me?” she asked, just as blithely, as if enquiring about the weather, plain enough in the sky above her and yet expecting him to answer. Would he?

Before he could give his answer, something pricked at the edges of his awareness. The Void, in its wisdom, let him reach a little further than everyone else, let sounds and movements prick at him that he should have no business knowing they were there. He cocked his head to the side, listening into nothing.

“What is it?” She was observant, at least.

“Guards,” he said, and raised his hand to command her silence. “They’re coming closer.”

Now, she was visibly struggling to maintain her calm façade. “They must not find me,” she told him, more urgent and earnest than he had anticipated. “I have… given them the slip,“ she continued, and what of that she thought he’d buy he couldn’t quite make out, but let her go on. “I can’t go back.”

He regarded her for another moment — let her wait. It was madness, he thought. He should leave her here, to be found and rescued and taken back to where she belonged, and he should be miles away when they found her, for his own sake and that of the work he’d been doing ever since returning to Serkonos. Fouling up four years of effort over one high-born lady… it was not the smart play. And yet here he was, staring into her eyes and making a _decision_.

“Fine,” he said, and could scarcely believe himself. “Follow me.” He turned, and without looking over his shoulder, opened the first door to his right, leading into the backyard of one of the houses on that street corner, then waited. It took her a few seconds, but then she was at his back.

“Where are we going?”

“Aventa,” he rasped. “But first, away from here. Stay close,” he cautioned her. “You get lost behind me, I won’t wait.”

“Understood.”

He started walking.

*

Through winding back alleys, around sharp corners, away from shop windows and past other people’s washing up: Daud led the Princess through half of Karnaca, or so it felt. The voices of the guards behind them soon faded, and yet he did not stop. They would come in from the dockyards, but there were guard stations on all sides of the city, in all districts. Even if they reached Aventa unimpeded, they would have to take care to remain unseen — either fade into the shadows or blend into the crowds so well that no-one would suspect them.

_Them_.

Outsider’s eyes, he was a fool.

_Her_. It was _her_ problem.

Forced to converge towards one of the bridges across the Grand Canal — somehow he doubted the Princess would appreciate crawling through one of the sewers — they were met with more people again, mingling and cutting off their path more than once. Daud was half aware of the lady following behind him and yet far too much so. He had told her he wouldn’t wait up for her, and she was smart and sticking to his heels as best she could, even at the brisk pace he was used to keeping and would not alter. He slipped past a family laying out their wares for market, and took another three steps before something changed.

She wasn’t behind him anymore.

He stopped. Didn’t turn.

At the edge of his awareness, there was that tug again. Guards. They were close-by. They were searching.

He’d give her five seconds. Then he’d move on without her, and on her head be it.

One.

Two.

Three.

_(It should never even have got to three.)_

“I’m here,” she whispered behind him, audibly out of breath.

Daud walked again. He would see her to Aventa, he decided. And then, they’d have a little chat.

* * *

Incredibly, with this strange man’s guidance, Jessamine made it to the Aventa Quarter. The streets were populated, lively, enough to let them blend in and not give cause for notice. Still, she desperately longed to change more of her appearance. As much as his advice about her sleeves had surprised her, she appreciated it now, as the indelible sun rose higher in the sky and let her feel its power. She watched his back as he strode ahead in front of her, subtly turning his head every few steps to see what he couldn’t from the corner of his eye. She knew it was self-preservation rather than concern for her that led him to be so careful, but nonetheless, he had brought her here, for little more than a promise of reward she was hardly able to keep as she was, not in possession of her purse. He could have so easily assaulted her himself, and killed her instead, as he nearly had that man who had been set to rob her in Campo Seta. Why hadn’t he? None of the glances he had given her supposed it to be her looks, nor her standing nor identity — which she could only pray he had not discovered. She recalled so vividly stepping through that door, so proud of herself for having discovered a set of connecting backyard doors to see her away from the sun and the streets, and seeing _him_. At first, she had felt terror. And then, curiosity at the way his eyes changed when he saw her; from rage to a serenity so cool it could only be a mask.

It wasn’t until he led her through the crowds towards a sun terrace where street musicians were playing and patrons sitting around at small tables, idly watching the horizon or playing cards, that she remembered she had never asked his name.

“What is your name?” she murmured at his back, suspecting that he would hear her no matter whether she spoke into a storm. His steps stuttered for the smallest of moments, and then he nearly had her gasp aloud by turning, setting a large hand into the crook of her elbow and steering her into a side alley.

“Suppose you give me yours first,” he drawled, and even as he towered in front of her, darkness at her back, and his eyes shadowed with it, she felt not fear enough to scream.

“I don’t suppose it is any of your business,” she managed, foolishly proud of how little her voice trembled.

There was that snarl again. “Let’s cut through the fog, Your Highness,” he gritted, and her nerves almost shattered. He knew. Of course he knew. No other man than one who knew would nearly murder another in front of her and then see her through a tangled web of streets away from the city’s guards. “They’ll turn the whole city upside-down until they find you.”

“I won’t go back,” she insisted.

“You’re the Princess. I’d say you rather have to.”

“Stay with me, then, if you’re so worried. Help me evade them and in the morning you can take me to the palace. There’s a reward in it for you.”

“You’ve promised me coin already, and made no mention of a figure. If they find me with you, they’ll kill me. I might as well be wearing the hangman’s noose.”

“You’ll just have to be faster, then.”

“Faster than your fabled bodyguard?” he asked critically.

She made a show of looking him up and down. “Self-doubt does not become you.”

His eyes narrowed.

“Now would you kindly tell me your name?” she asked again.

His nostrils flared. “Daud,” he grated.

_Daud_, she repeated to herself, barely mouthing the word. She wondered whether it was really his name.

“Will you stay with me?” she asked.

“And _deliver_ you in the morning?” He was mocking her.

Still, she nodded. She watched him consider, his eyes assessing her, weighing her, doing his best to find her wanting.

“Fine.” He shook his head as if at odds with himself. “You had better brought a lot of coin with you from Gristol.”

“Not to worry,” she replied, slipping past him now that the danger had passed and he had agreed to their bargain. “We brought enough to buy an army.”

He’d started to follow her as if towed along by invisible thread, but halted in his tracks at that. “An army?”

She turned to look at him over her shoulder. “An army of good will,” she smiled. She stepped back out of the shadows, and, casting her eyes around at the women sitting on the terrace, reached up and started removing some of the pins that held her hair in place. It would disguise her more readily, in more ways than one, to relinquish her usual style.

Daud spoke from behind her: “What are you doing?”

“Blending in.” She removed the final pin and felt her hair tumble onto her back and shoulders, and felt his presence at her shoulder; so different from Corvo’s and yet not unfamiliar. “Wise, wouldn’t you agree?”

He cleared his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Daud... no... not really :')


	3. Charade (Your Heart Is As Black As Night)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I suppose you should call me by my name,” she said, and he restrained himself from laughing.
> 
> “I don’t think I should call you anything,” he subtly tipped his chin at the crowd surrounding them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kids. KIDS. Here's Daud and Jessamine gettin to know each other and DEFINITELY not cozying up or anything. No, sir.
> 
> Daud: Not holding her for ransom doesn't mean I like her.  
Jessamine, hiding from the Grand Guard behind him: Uh-huh.

Daud averted his gaze as the Princess adjusted her appearance, little by little. He did not want to watch her and credit her for observance: she was looking around at the people milling around on the terrace, the way the other women wore their hair — as yet more relaxed in these parts than noble quarters like Cyria — and the way they arranged their clothing, made of firm but light fabrics, not quite in the style the royal tailor had provided her, but close enough. The Princess obviously enjoyed herself as she unbuttoned the collar of her blouse, and Daud raised his brow at her. She met his gaze and he looked away again.

“I suppose you should call me by my name,” she said, and he restrained himself from laughing.

“I don’t think I should call you anything,” he subtly tipped his chin at the crowd surrounding them.

Her expression turned, inexplicably, teasing. “Suppose we are separated.”

“Then I’ll leave you there, for the Guard to find,” he drawled, making a show of clasping his hands behind his back, stepping half a pace away from her, to the side, and watching everyone else instead of her. Her fabled bodyguard was very likely going spare with worry over his precious lady at this very moment.

Now that they were on equal footing (well… hardly) and he no longer had the advantage over her, her eyes were still guarded, but clever. He mentally scoffed at himself — he was no old fool to be taken in by an _ingenue_, and yet here he was, contemplating her _eyes_. How many years had he on her — nine, ten? Six, at least. He despised men like that, drooling over any young woman or man who crossed their path that was ‘too’ pretty, or handsome; and thus magically forfeit their right to being treated with respect. Let alone some peace and quiet.

It was, truth be told, not a problem Daud tended to have. He had used to receive his fair share of glances, even overtures, whenever he met contacts in pubs or the old saloon in Batista, but his surly demeanour was usually effective enough in discouraging even the most persistent (or desperate) from approaching him further. Those who still did were in for a short drop and a sudden stop — not in the naval sense, of course, but then his position meant Daud could not afford to be remembered (or recognised) across Karnaca for stinging rejections. Not to mention jilted lovers…

_Outsider’s eyes_, he thought. Him, and a trail of broken hearts? Unlikely.

The Princess, meanwhile, was still watching him, with her clever eyes.

“I know your name,” she continued as though he hadn’t spoken, “and I know that you must command one of the gangs that are doubtlessly as dangerous and ruthless here as they are in Dunwall. But you have not yet told me your _purpose_.”

“My purpose?” Daud echoed.

“Why do you do what you do?” she asked him straight now. “What is your goal in all this? In nearly crushing a man who stands on the wrong street corner. A man, I might add, who works for you. Who might never walk again.”

“He’ll walk,” Daud returned dismissively.

“Have you maimed a man that way before?”

“Have you?” Daud turned to regard her now. “You know little of the world outside your Tower, I think, _Princess_,” he leaned close enough to murmur. He retreated from her before she could realise the colour of his eyes — habit more than genuine fear that she might know what it could tell her about his _purpose_.

“I am far from naive, Daud,” said she; and it was rare to hear his name spoken in _this_ way: neither challenge nor fear, but assessment and, he suspected, what she thought of as companionship. So much for naiveté, he thought privately. She continued, “I am no stranger to death for the wrong reasons, nor the supposedly right ones. My father might not yet want me to know some aspects of running an Empire, but I do.”

“And that equips you to consort with the likes of me?” he queried, starting up a slow circuit of her, walking round behind her. “Have you ever held a knife by the dangerous end, Your Highness?”

She tensed, knowing very well he meant the address as mockery. And, possibly, as innuendo. (Would he be this smug with the Royal Protector’s blade at his throat? Perhaps. Perhaps not.)

“I carry one in my boot,” she informed him. “Will I have to use it against you?”

“As if you ever had a chance,” he smirked, coming to a stand on her other side. He cut her a glance. “I don’t expect your Lord Protector has ever let anyone else close enough for you to need it.”

“Indeed not,” she answered, pride in her voice as well as quiet terror, “albeit not for lack of trying.” She tilted her head. “Should I be glad none of them were you?” She paused, and he let her. “Seeing as all of them are dead.”

He scoffed. “I’d like to see him try.”

*

They continued like this for some time, under the guise of listening to the musicians’ songs. At length, Daud prompted them to move on, deeper into the district. He would have been content to remain unsociable and taciturn; however, evidently the Princess had different ideas. Throughout, she kept up light chatter about Serkonos and Karnaca, asking him plenty of questions he reluctantly answered while keeping a weather eye out for too curious passers-by and, of course, Grand Guard soldiers. She had just observed on the number of couples in a dance on another terrace along the canal, when Daud, starting to let his irritation show, looked at her over his shoulder.

“Do you never tire of small talk? There must be enough of that at Court, and the subjects never change.”

“Are you asking out of interest, or to vilify women for talking too much?” she returned, catching him slightly off guard with her directness.

“In my experience, as I’m sure in yours, men who believe themselves powerful are far fonder of hearing themselves speak than the women who actually get the work done — because that is rarely them.”

“And you? Do you believe yourself powerful?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Have I been talking your ear off?” he returned sarcastically.

“You look to have more to say than you actually do. But I have reason to believe that is down to terrible manners rather than humility,” she answered, evidently game for a more lively exchange. “As for noble ladies, they will not stop telling you about their tailors precisely because it is one of the only subjects their husbands allow them to be knowledgeable of. Those that do have any business sense still lead their husbands to believe that everything was their grand idea in the first place.”

Daud raised a brow. “Are you so severe on your own sex?”

“Lady Boyle is a fearsome thing to behold,” she returned, smirking now herself. “I quite like her, her conniving attitude aside.”

Daud hummed. “I’ve not had the pleasure.”

Her gaze sharpened. “But you have been to Dunwall?” She desperately wanted to have caught him out, did she not?

He decided to let her have it. “Yes.”

She looked so pleased — it was a tell she had better lose if she wanted to survive Parliament, he thought.

“I spent some time at the Academy of Natural Philosophy,” he added to spare them both the asking. “Didn’t take to it.”

“And you had better things to do elsewhere?” she ventured.

“You might say that.”

“What kinds of things?” At that, he cast her another forbidding glance, and she gave it up more easily than he’d thought she might. “Fine.”

_It’s too easy_, he thought.

“I’ll stop asking if you dance with me.”

* * *

His gaze turned even _more_ forbidding at that, and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. At Court, she often laughed only just to keep from weeping, but this strange, dangerous man with his sour bedside manner amused her in a way that seemed entirely unwise. It surely was. But she sensed that he had, within limits, been completely honest with her.

“No.”

“Because you don’t know how — or because you don’t want to?”

“We’ll call it both,” he repeated her words from earlier back to her, and she knew she’d manoeuvred herself into that particular trap.

She sighed. The sun was starting to creep lower towards the horizon. She’d hardly realised how much time had passed since she’d found Daud and he’d agreed to take her to Aventa. Soon, darkness would lend a hand in hiding her face — although so far, no-one seemed to suspect her. And why should they? They had no idea she should be missing. There still had not been any announcements over the speakers that covered the city, very similar to the system used in Dunwall, but, according to Serkonan architecture, so much more ornate and delicate than the clean, brutal lines of Gristol. So she was left to enjoy the breeze in her hair, the weight of it on her shoulders rather than clinging to her scalp. She rarely got to let her hair down, literally, at the Tower, rarely in Corvo’s company, and even on the sea passage, she’d had to maintain her otherwise usual image.

Daud urged them to move on once again, then, and as they passed from one quarter to the other, keeping to the edge of the canal, they passed more than one beggar, asking for alms on the side of the street. Jessamine regretted not carrying at least a small pouch of coin. Daud, following her gaze, seemed surprised.

“Afflicted with a bleeding heart? That’s unusual, for your kind.”

“Compassion is hardly a disease,” she said, feeling irritation of her own rise up within her. She was tired of nobles and politicians — all of them — implying otherwise.

“You wouldn’t know it watching the Abbey receive free reign while taxes are raised and wages go down every year,” he shot back. He aimed to speak dispassionately, she was sure, but he was not like those men who could treat the misery of others as an academic problem. He _knew_ that misery, she was sure of it.

“It shouldn’t be that way,” she said. “I would certainly not rule that way.”

“Don’t promise yourself things you cannot keep,” he advised.

“What do you know of what I can do?” The certainty of one day wearing the crown was a daunting one; but it was what she had been raised to do. She had always known, and always believed she should be worthy.

“Goodness alone does not bear the crown,” he told her, leaning against a parapet next to her, as the tightness of his jaw belied his indifference. “It cannot.”

“I’m not certain it ever did,” she conceded. Her father would often struggle with the responsibility he held for the Isles, both in times of peace and in times of conflict. When he had been a boy, he could not have dreamt of holding the seat one day. The Kaldwins, although it was nowadays hardly talked of for fear or reprisals, had been so far removed from the throne. After the death of Larisa Olaskir, there had been a troubled regency, and half a dozen noble families wrestling for control. Empress Olaskir dying without a living heir or chosen successor, and with only extended family meant there had been no direct claim to the crown, only infighting. Her father had emerged the victor through haggling and luck and circumstances aligning. Parliament had favoured his appointment, which she wondered whether it ought to make her _more_ suspicious of Dunwall nobility.

“So how _do_ you wish to rule?” Daud asked her, then, unexpectedly sharply.

She knew that, whatever she proposed, he would harshly judge her. She forged ahead anyway. “You’ll tell me it is naive to want for my citizens to thrive?”

“_All_ your citizens?”

“Of course.”

He shook his head, but seemed bemused. “Then you’re not naive. It’s much worse.”

“How so?”

“You’re an _idealist_.” It was pronounced as a crushing verdict.

“And you a cynic. What a surprise.”

“Are you? Surprised? Meeting a street criminal and making him your paid tour guide?”

“You are hardly giving me much of a _tour_.” Beyond that, she weighed her answer. “It was foolish and hopeful of me to ask you to accompany me,” she said, watching him narrow his eyes as he tried to predict where her argument might lead, “and you still did. So why should the world not bend to my will in this?” She knew she had him there, even if he’d never admit it.

Instead, he said, “Because the world is not that kind.”

“The world need not be, if I am and those who work with me.” She stopped. “Did you just declare yourself _kind_?”

“What of those who would work against you?” he ignored her teasing question. “Will you kill them with kindness? Or with your Protector’s sword?”

“I will not have my political adversaries murdered,” she argued.

“But their assassins? Their spies? Their traitors?” He had turned to look at her more clearly now, and the expression on his face was stark. “How do you expect to live past your thirtieth year if you cannot rule with an open hand but a dagger behind your back?”

“Because that dagger is just as likely to be driven into my side,” she returned. “My father was not born a prince, and perhaps that will be to my advantage. I know what can be won can just as easily be lost.”

“You mean he has not grown complacent?” Daud tilted his head. “Is he not growing indulgent in the belief that he was _meant_ to rule, that ruling and being ruled is the natural order of things?”

“Are you suggesting he abdicate? That we relinquish the throne? That there _be_ no more throne?” She had heard and read of those who would abolish the aristocracy and cast them out of Dunwall Tower; out of the Grand Palace; out of the Judges’ Chamber; out of the King’s Keep.

“And why not?” Daud challenged.

“The people will feel abandoned, if they are not ready, and they are not.” Slowly, she voiced thoughts for which her father would reprimand her to her quarters for a month if he heard. She lowered her voice. “Revolution — change — cannot come from above. The people will have to take power from our hands themselves.”

“That implies blood, and war, and misery,” Daud told her. “A people do not rise until they have no other choice.”

“And someone will one day make enough mistakes,” she answered. “But not I. I intend to lead the people of the Isles into an era of peace, of prosperity.”

“And they’ll let you?”

“You would not ask me that if I were a man,” she challenged.

“I’ll ask that of any fool who tells me they’ll make everyone in the Isles rich, _and_ happy.”

“You are a _miser_.”

He leaned closer. “You are a sheltered noble girl with noble goals, and not a notch in your belt,” he hissed. “You may be lovely in the eyes of your people, Princess, but you are not yet ready.”

Taken aback at his calling her ‘lovely,’ she blinked. He had given no indication of ever even noticing any part of how she looked. And _ready_? Would _he_ be ready to lead an Empire, should it fall into his lap? She doubted it. Unless that was his point — that no-one was, alone — she would pay no heed to the insult.

“You are a strange man,” she told him, momentarily breaking away from their argument.

“And what do they tell children about going off with strange men,” he drawled, a droll tone on someone who was so adamant on not having those sort of moods.

“I am not a child,” she said pleasantly, managing not to sound petulant, “and I am on a Serkonan holiday.”

“You are sent by your father to ensnare us all and soften us up so we give your father what he wants,” he scoffed.

“And isn’t it working?” She poured some of that _sweetness_ her governess had always demanded of her into her tone.

He raised an eloquent brow. “How would you expect to know?”

She shrugged. “I shall make my own judgement.” She looked around, and spotted more musicians, dancers, and lights on a terrace below, closer to the water. “Come on.”

*

Around them, night had fallen by the time they’d arrived at the overlook, and the lights on the tables cast a soft glow on them and their fellow patrons.

“Still not dancing,” he murmured close enough to be in her ear, and she smiled.

She turned to face him, and by the look in his eyes, he’d not expected her to. She stepped yet closer, and she could see him squint at her.

“What if I wanted to thank you?” Her heart was in her throat for being so close, his eyes hooded in the low light. They were a fascinating colour, grey and cold like dark marble. Almost as though they could turn completely black at a moment’s notice.

“Princess,” he said, and it started sounding less like a mockery of her title and more like a warning.

Leaning up on her toes, she stretched and pressed a quick, short peck to his cheek, barely above his jaw. She lowered herself back to her heels and observed his face: it was entirely blank at first, but then the spell was broken by the musicians’ violin picking up a new melody, and he looked at her with quiet disapproval.

She expected another warning — or perhaps a growl, she thought, possibly a little too eagerly — but instead he did not say anything. He merely put a step between them: not backwards, because that would be running away, she reckoned. To the side; and refused to look at her.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

He hummed.

*

They stayed another while, barely making conversation, sitting at one of the tables and accepting a complimentary pitcher of wine, of which Daud withheld most from her while hardly drinking a sip, adding insult to injury. When they did speak, she would not draw anything out of him on the subject of his family, but at least on the history of the district and its quarters. Not once did he smile, but he did make her laugh, and seemed bemused every time at any evidence of his own dry wit.

It drew ever later in the evening when he looked up at the sky and its changing moon.

“Time to go.”

“But—”

“I am not delivering you at dawn,” he said, and his tone brooked no argument.

*

It took long enough to cross the canal, and more than once they had to duck into alleyways to evade a Grand Guard patrol.

“They’ll be terrorising the local gangs,” Daud murmured lowly,” you had better hope no-one working for them saw us together and snitched.”

“Why, what would happen then?” _To you_, she did not add.

“They’d have my guts for garters, Princess,” he said with a false note of lightness in his voice. “At least they would, if they could catch me.”

*

Finally, he brought her as far as the Palace District, the carriage station just below them.

“Can you make your way down those stairs without being accosted?” he pointed to their left.

“Aren’t you going to watch over me?”

He stared at her. “Fine.”

Pleased at his concession, although it was hardly necessary, she nodded. But she hesitated leaving him. “What about your reward?”

“It hardly matters.”

“If they see I am unharmed—”

“When they see my face, they will not believe you to have remained unharmed,” he interrupted her. “Nor will they stop to check. I’d rather not be rewarded with bullets.”

She fought down her disappointment.

“Go,” he prompted her, almost kindly. “And with any luck, you’ll never see me again.”

“How’s that luck?”

“Means you’ll live to see your children grow.” His words, so ominous, would haunt her from that moment on. “Now go.”

She bit her lip. She had already thanked him, and his gaze was unforgiving.

“Goodbye, Daud.”

“Goodbye, Princess.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter is where it all goes.... funky 👀👀👀👀👀👀


	4. We Must Be Killers (I Follow Rivers)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Were he a more romantic soul, he might have imagined himself going to Dunwall to chase coin or glory. But the work he had in Karnaca was not to be wasted in reckless abandon. He had spent good years of his life getting in with the Eyeless and their puppet masters. He’d kept… an eye, however, on Dunwall. The late Emperor’s reign had become troubled, near the end, a constant stream of imperial decrees being issued. And now, Gristol was reaping the rewards of his demise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the one where everything gets very, very sad.
> 
> Chapter soundtrack: [We Must Be Killers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-lshmwmeU7c) // [I Follow Rivers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PgMU-BytQag)

1836

Daud was in his office at the Chamber, the front page of the _Courier_ crumpled in his fist. He’d not done it in a rage. He’d ripped it slowly, like the Void swallowing everything within its reach, his splayed fingers grasping at the paper. This was the harbinger of what would happen next. Of what he had to do.

***

1825

It had been too soon.

He knew it was too soon.

The news reached him slowly — in Karnaca, the death of the Emperor was not first order of business even if Euhorn had been the Duke’s lifelong friend. Ships still took two weeks to travel the Ocean. Once the proclamation had been made, Daud had removed himself from the busy streets of the capital, to the quiet of one of the shoebox apartments he kept across the poorer districts. The Outsider had certainly hinted at a future in Gristol, years and years ago, something about fate and things foreseen; but it had been the Black-Eyed Bastard himself who had turned Daud onto the Cult in the first place. He’d had a few brushes with them while travelling the Isles, and after the Outsider had finally marked him, there had been a few secrets revealed that Daud thought he could have done without knowing. And so, Daud had stayed in Karnaca, rather than returning to Dunwall directly after receiving his powers from the Void five years ago. And then last year, after… her.

Were he a more romantic soul, he might have imagined himself going to Dunwall to chase coin or glory. But the work he had in Karnaca was not to be wasted in reckless abandon. He had spent good years of his life getting in with the Eyeless and their puppet masters. He’d kept… an eye, however, on Dunwall. The late Emperor’s reign had become troubled, near the end, a constant stream of imperial decrees being issued. And now, Gristol was reaping the rewards of his demise.

Now, his daughter was already ascended to the throne, crowned on the 1st of High Cold — four days ago. Empress Jessamine, succeeding her father who had been assassinated; same as his predecessor, which perhaps belied that distance to the throne so many had bemoaned when he had emerged from the Interregnum the victor. The deed had been attributed to Morley separatists, fitting nicely into a narrative that had been in the making, slowly, for some time now. Daud had no doubt that _someone_ had good reason to have Euhorn Kaldwin removed and to instate his young, as yet inexperienced heir on the throne. Twenty feasts was no age to succeed him. Daud did not underestimate her intelligence, nor her mettle. But he knew the kind of greed that sought to influence a ruler, one those who would use them thought to be more easily manipulated. She would not be the first to suffer for that bleeding heart he’d accused her of. It had barely been a year since. He still thought of her. Sometimes. She had a way of leaving an impression, even on one such as him.

*

_You stand on the edge of a precipice, Daud_, the Outsider greeted him that night at one of the shrines close to one of Daud’s stash houses.

“Not this again,” Daud rumbled as he looked up to follow the floating beasts with his eyes. He still waited for the day one of them would come crashing down to bury him underneath itself. “Every week I’m making a choice that may change my life, and yet it never does.”

The Outsider cocked his head. _Does it irk you to be in charge of your own destiny, only for that destiny to remain the same? Only, that puts in question your choices, not your fate._

Daud’s eyes drew back towards the Void god. “Perhaps,” he grated. He wondered what the bastard wanted with him now: he’d only come to complete a rune ritual, not to pray — or for chit-chat. Then again, might be the answer ought to have been obvious.

_And here I was expecting to find you already packing your bags._

Daud scoffed. “You read the paper?”

_I see through a thousand eyes, Daud, and walk a thousand minds. Including hers. And she is frightened._

“She has her bodyguard,” Daud pivoted as if to dodge the path of a bullet. They had never truly spoken _of_ her, the most the Outsider had done was to tease him about ‘making friends in high places.’ It was unlike him to arrive so neatly at a point to his prattling. “What would I do in Dunwall?”

_I’m sure you would find something worthwhile. As for her bodyguard, you could have known him, had you not turned and run each time, from the crossing of your paths._

“And what about my work here?” Daud gestured at the islands in the Void around them, scattered pieces of Karnaca. “The work _you_ set me up to do, and that I am for some foolish reason still doing.”

_You have been… useful_, the Outsider conceded. _You convinced one of their lieutenants to walk his own path_.

“And I could replace him now,” Daud turned it on its head. Paolo getting out alive was one thing, but it was no use if Daud didn’t making something of the vacancy in their ranks. “Five years, for this. And then I could finally discover what’s behind all of their secrecy. Get another two steps closer to the ones that pull the strings. See what it is they think they _have_.”

_The Cult, even if they have devoted themselves to me, rather pale in comparison with the seat of power, do they not?_

Daud’s eyes narrowed, and he frowned. “You want something.”

_What makes you so certain?_

“Your questions are even more leading than usual.” They certainly couldn’t be called rhetorical in good conscience. “Just say it.” To his surprise, the Outsider acquiesced.

_Go to Dunwall_, he said. _Go to the throne._

“I am no man for Court,” Daud said roughly.

_Keep to the shadows, then_, the Outsider ordered easily. _They do suit you better._

“And what am I to do? _Watch_, like you?” Daud questioned.

_What if that was all you could do?_

Daud waited, but the Outsider did not deign to elaborate. “Is she in danger?” Clear and present, he needed to know.

_She’s the Empress of the Isles. She’s always in danger._

“Are you _sending_ me to _protect_ her?” Daud demanded, sharply now. Again, he thought of Attano. Was the “whirlwind” who’d won the Blade Verbena at sixteen not enough? He’d wondered, before, whether the Outsider had set him up to meet her that day.

_What would you do, in my stead?_

“If I were you, I’d not meddle with the living,” Daud returned.

_No, you only resolve to kill them_.

“I’d remind you that some of Karnaca’s upper crust only yet live thanks to me,” Daud answered sourly.

_Only because you’re not yet done blackmailing them for your own ends,_ the Outsider shot back.

“Are you going to argue with the results?” Besides, he couldn’t risk the Eyeless cutting him loose over too much attention from the guard.

_Are you not grinding against the limits of this city, of your life here?_

“Don’t go making this about me.”

_But it is about you_. The Outsider looked positively sadistic now. _And her, and the throne._ Then, abruptly, he softened. _She cannot know you’re there. You must see to that._

Daud looked out into the Void, a sea without horizon. “There’s going to be blood, isn’t there?”

_That’s up to you, don’t you think?_

Daud looked back at him.

“Or perhaps it’s up to _them_.”

*

Daud had secured passage and was halfway through getting his house in order when he was ready to admit that would have gone even if the Outsider had not needled him. It was rare, to receive so clear a word from him — this had to be important. And if it was important to the Black-Eyed Bastard, then there could be no happiness to find in it. He’d leave hope behind in Serkonos, what of it there was. Jessamine’s idealism had woken something in him, but it wasn’t hope. It was something darker. It was knowing that people like him would have to pay the price if someone like her was to be given the chance to change the world for the better.

And he’d rather it be him.

*

_So you came_, the Outsider marvelled a month later. _And what will you seek? Power? Influence?_

“How about some peace and quiet,” Daud growled. He had barely unpacked the few things he’d brought with him on the cold journey up North. There were always enough abandoned apartments around, if one knew where to look — and knew to avoid the Void-damned Hatters. He’d need to get his bearings first, before deciding what to do.

Daud let himself slowly blend into the fabric fo the city: immigrants were arriving every day, and although he cut an imposing figure to those who knew what to look for, he had learnt how to deceive the eye. There were a few old contacts he reached out to; among them none other than Anton Sokolov, how Head of the Academy of Natural Philosophy and portraitist of the moment. Nobles were falling over themselves to be painted by him, and the man had the nerve to be picky. Daud despised him and his leering stare, but at least his acquaintance could be useful Daud was slightly surprised that Sokolov would remember him — after all, it had only been one winter term. But Sokolov recognised him and Daud barely had to dig to be introduced to… the right people.

People with an axe to grind.

From the other side of the river, tucked away in the Distillery District, Daud watched Dunwall Tower. The Outsider had been right — it would be foolish to see her, to reveal his presence. He would serve her better from the shadows, doing the work Attano could not. _Serve her_. Void. Was that really what he had come here to do? He had readily taken contract wetwork in Karnaca, but he’d been careful about it. The Eyeless would not have appreciated him branching out. But here, now, in Dunwall, it seemed as though that would be the price that needs be paid. To keep killing. In Dunwall, it all came down to reputation.

_“I will not have my political adversaries murdered,”_ she’d once vowed. And there, then, lay the rub. The reason he could never go to her: he knew what he had to do, and he knew that if she found out, she’d despise him for his trouble. She would cast him out of Gristol, and she’d be alone.

Her shadow protector, then. He could be that.

***

1833

Perhaps he’d always been hollow. Perhaps he had willingly destroyed his own soul with every target he killed, with every head he cut off that simply grew back. He’d taken a side. And what did he have to show for it? A hollow victory: ‘I told you so.’ He’d been right — goodness alone did not bear the crown. But where was she to hear it? In all these years he’d seen more of her statues than of her. He did watch, sometimes, when she travelled from the Tower to Parliament; and he was usually present for her public appearances — hidden, in the shadows. But he had never been inside Dunwall Tower. He had watched her — watched over hear. Even Attano’s name felt familiar by now. He thought of him often enough. They had a _child_. It was an open secret. Daud chafed and ground against it and sank deeper into the blood pooling at his feet. His boots were caked in river muck and his hands in guilt; and there was only so much to be done about the spectre of death that followed him.

He’d done it all for her.

That did not make it right. That did not make him _good_. Well, he never had been. He’d only ever been _better_ for having met her that day. For having a purpose. However fraught. But there could still float whaling ships on the noble blood he’d spilt, and Dunwall was still getting worse by the year. And the woman he’d come here to protect was still in mortal danger. Attano was still her bodyguard, but there was a new Spymaster, too: Hiram Burrows. Daud regretted his decision to stay away the day he was appointed. That glimmer of hope… it dwindled.

***

1835

The Plague arrived. Had he failed her already?

Daud had not been able to prevent it, and more now than ever did he bear the burden of not knowing whether his “work” was going to pay off. Might never know. Would protecting her yield him reward? Could he truly claim he was doing it for good? Or just for selfish greed, for an infatuation he’d never realised? He remembered the Outsider’s words from so long ago — longer still than his urging him to go to Dunwall, after all.

_It’s up to you, Daud. There is always a choice._

Daud had chosen. He had chosen _this_.

And what if she died tomorrow, to an assassin Attano could not best? He watched her fight, every day, for her ideals. Had he helped her achieve them? Would things truly have been worse if not for his interference? He wanted to go to her then, when the sickness came. But the Outsider warned him, yet again, to stay away. And Daud, for fear of the revulsion in her eyes when she recognised him, when she saw the bloodied knife in his hand and the black stain on his soul, kept to the shadows.

Daud wondered why the Outsider still spoke to him. Surely there were more _interesting_ people out there, these days. He had met a few witches not too long ago — a new coven. He’d smelt the Void on them a mile off. Whoever it was, they were powerful, and a new name had arrived carried on the wind. Delilah. For now, they were no concern of his. For now.

Lurk knew him too well. She saw through him, and knew what was on his mind though perhaps not in his heart, no matter how feral the snarl that guarded it. He had nothing else to ward it — no traps, no tripwires, only his own desperate devotion.

“Why’s she not paying us if we’re already working for her?” she’d asked, only once, years ago. She’d watched him decide, offered contract after offered contract, after he’d introduced her to the business of blood, coin, and choosing which to take.

“Because aristocrats are happy to pay to kill each other,” he’d answered. “It gives them something to think of.”

It’d been a poor diversion, even then. But, he supposed, it’d given Lurk something to think about as well. Still, she was right. Daud, in his time, had killed more in the Empress’ favour than he had culled those deserving judgment. Some of the Whalers called it justice, on occasion; they were proud of their work. Their powers. They had come to him slowly at first and then steadily as the Wrenhaven, as Daud had recognised ever more of them in bad situations not unlike his own when he was their age. And then, of course, there were the mercs and thieves. They didn’t always stay, but mostly they stayed long enough.

There’d been rumours, of course, of the Knife’s… editorialising of history. Only for him, the sword was truly mightier than the pen. They had caught on at some point, to it being the work of one man. For a time, the papers had even speculated that Attano was the Knife of Dunwall — until someone had recognised Daud, and sold his likeness to the Watch. Daud cursed the day that sketch had made it public, but it had come to serve him since. The person responsible for that betrayal, however, had not lived to deserve his gratitude.

The shadows, then, kept his secrets. And, for a moment of weakness, he wondered whether _she_ did, too, and whether she despaired for her so-called allies were as callous as her enemies. They used Daud plenty, over the years. All throughout those years, he had sabotaged as many of Burrows’ contracts as he could — none he took himself, to spare his reputation, for some he could not refuse. Daud had wondered what she made of it. She had to have seen the posters proclaiming the sins and pride of his work. Did she know — did she _realise_? Did Attano question her involvement? Daud fancied that, if the bodyguard knew, he’d have hunted him down already — to kill him, to thank him, was anybody’s guess. As it stood, keeping his secret did not promise absolution, and so, still, Daud kept his distance. She would not want to see him. If she did, she would have sent for him. If necessary, by her Lord Protector’s blade.

He remembered the way it had settled into his bones, becoming an assassin. He remembered leaving hope behind in Karnaca. He should have expected to sell his soul for coin. What he’d done instead was to sell it for a heart that’d never be his. When the Plague arrived and Daud understood too late that it had come through Burrows’ advancing his plans, Daud knew that it was him who had visited doom upon her world. Had she not seen the danger? But then, he had not warned her. And perhaps she needed Burrows’ connections in Tyvia more than she needed his letters.

He remembered the gangs of Karnaca, so long ago. ‘This is my city,’ they liked to say. Daud knew better than to claim this city, or so much as the street below. He didn’t have to. No matter who they were, no matter how much coin they had stashed away.

Death laid claim to all.

Who lived, who died, it made no difference to him except to know that one more secret buried meant coin in his coffers, meant more work, meant freedom. He would never be caught. People liked to say that Daud moved through the shadows, but what they failed to realise was a simple truth: he _was_ the shadow. He was the dark that seemed too deep beyond the doorway, the waning light of a street lantern just before the dawn; he was the one who brought darkness in his wake and yet was never seen. He knew that one day, that darkness would devour him whole. The rats always bit the hand that fed, as did the bloodflies possess their keeper. The Void was no different. He would feed it blood until it had enough of him, and when that day came, it would not matter how much coin _he_ had stashed away.

Perhaps he might get to spend some of it before then, he thought as he watched the bustle of the streets from the roof above the apartment he sometimes used as a dead drop. Might be he’d die tomorrow. He did not _mean_ to die. But to know that it would not matter, even for a moment, to anyone but himself… that, too, was freedom. There was licence in being one with the shadows. And this was _her_ city.

Could he claim he made the right choice? Killing in her name, and money to his, to feed an army? It was the only choice he’d seen. And perhaps that spoke more of his mind than the blood on his hands.

***

1836

Daud had not been offered contracts from Burrows’ office in some time now — for all that he still _knew_ what went on in Dunwall, how everything was always tangled up like a bag of snakes, he’d been shut out. He did not doubt that Burrows had long had his suspicions about the Knife, but perhaps in as much as the man was suspicious of everyone. Still it came as no surprise, then, when the Whalers were offered a contract worth so much coin that Daud _could not_ refuse. Aided by a threat: if he did, the Overseers would come, and bring ruin to his house.

It was time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh this is gonna _hurt_.


	5. Oh My My (Wishing Well)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The Emperor is dead,” she declared, clear of voice, to the assembled courtiers. Extended her hand in a pact that was worth less than nothing if they did not respond in kind.
> 
> “Long live the Empress!” The call was answered, strong and without hesitation.
> 
> She surprised herself to feel relief. Had she truly wanted it? Wanted it enough to risk their derision for disappointed hopes? Had she wanted to run enough to lose it by default? The pact was done, and she would never know. But she still wished she could run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the final chapter! Thank you, all of you, who've kept me company on this weird ride filled with feels. And to think, that it all started with me watching Roman Holiday and thinking, Huh. Gregory Peck doesn't make a half-bad Daud. 
> 
> That movie had a lot less murder, though.
> 
> Music: [Oh My My](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4wFFZLf19bk) // [So We Meet Again My Heartache](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RYQGYhU0ROk) // [Wishing Well](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UNkzuZuQT2Y) // [This Night](https://youtu.be/gRBzcggoWl0)

She knew it had been too soon.

Taking the throne at three-and-twenty, barely a woman, barely a diplomat — bedding her bodyguard in secret made her neither, not in _their_ estimation nor her own — she had not been ready. She’d _known_ since she was twelve that one day her head would be burdened with the crown and title her father bore. Her training had been formally completed when she was eighteen, and from then on she had assisted the Emperor in matters of state and empire every day. _Formally_, she’d been ready. She had been Princess all her life. After her mother’s death, the papers had murmured that, should Euhorn fall before his time, there would be no Lady Regent to lend her daughter aid. Her father had explained this to her years into her royal schooling, and told her that the people of Dunwall were keen to see him grow old. He had, before her eyes, as his first bout with pneumonia nearly took him into the Void when she was seventeen. She had spent her days by his sickbed and her nights pacing her room, not allowing Corvo to leave her. He’d stayed, waiting with her for the doctor and her father’s stewards. They never came.

Not those nights.

That night thirteen years ago, they did. The bullet had lodged too deep, Anton had murmured, blood on his apron, on his hands and arms, high as his elbows. He looked like a butcher, she remembered thinking. For hours, he’d tried to save the Emperor, but even the famed Royal Physician had had to concede defeat. Faced with expectant faces, Sokolov’s blood-soaked finality, and Corvo silent at her shoulder, she had felt the whole world bearing down on her. She knew what was expected of her. Instead, she wanted to throw them all out of the room — they would have to obey their Empress. But obedience was not admiration. And she would lose all of their respect, if she commanded them too early. Moreso, if she did it to turn and hide herself in Corvo’s embrace and scream without a sound.

There was an order to these things. Procedure — protocol.

“The Emperor is dead,” she declared, clear of voice, to the assembled courtiers. Extended her hand in a pact that was worth less than nothing if they did not respond in kind.

“Long live the Empress!” The call was answered, strong and without hesitation.

She surprised herself to feel relief. Had she truly wanted it? Wanted it enough to risk their derision for disappointed hopes? Had she wanted to _run_ enough to lose it by default? The pact was done, and she would never know. But she still wished she could run.

Corvo did not let her entertain the thought for long. Business concluded, he steered her away from prying eyes. There would be no time to mourn that night, nor the next. But when eventually she was allowed to fall, he would be there to catch her.

A fortnight hence, letters arrived from the Isles. From the People’s Chamber of Tyvia, from the King of Morley, and from Serkonos a message of condolences and promises of aid from the Duke’s court. He invited her to return to Karnaca at her own convenience — it was a formality, as no new ruler could afford to leave their seat unguarded so soon after taking any throne; but conversely, as Empress, she _should_ make a tour of her Empire. And, knowing Theodanis as a good and kind man who had maintained a friendly relationship with her father, the offer was genuine. Conscious of Corvo stationed at the door, she locked those thoughts away.

Later, when she was truly alone, Corvo gone to retire to his own rooms at her request, she picked up the letter from the Duke again. Then, there, in the dark, she could consider Karnaca as she remembered it. Her appearance at the Palace that morning had caused an uproar, a wild cacophony of orders among the guards and hurried examinations of her person. Corvo, who had just returned from searching for her all night, had near wept, she’d seen it in his eyes; only for desperate relief to turn to incredulous scorn when he realised once they were alone that she had taken measures to _delay_ her turn — that she’d run away. She had hidden from _him_, too, rather than beseeching him, once again, to accompany her.

“Would you have helped me escape, Corvo? Would you?” she’d asked him then, once they were alone in the ducal palace’s guest quarters. “Would you have shown me the home of your youth? I did ask you, Corvo. I did ask you.” And Corvo had blanched as he’d realised what, truly, she’d asked of him the night before they’d made port in Karnaca. She’d asked him what rules he would break for her — the rules of protocol, of court, or the rules of a good man. Would he put their love above his honour, self-imposed; and he had given her his answer. He apologised, then, regret earnest in his voice; but she told him it was unnecessary. She had chosen the right man for the job, after all. An Empress should not want for a heart, she said, for it was her crown that made her who she was.

It had soothed Corvo, at the time, but nonetheless Karnaca had driven a wedge between them that had taken time to heal.

And here, a year later, in the quiet of her office, Jessamine thought of _him_. The one who had kept her nascent burden safe that night.

She wondered if he knew.

***

**1827**

She heard his name in the shadows before she ever saw the wanted posters. When one found its way to her, and she found her fears confirmed, she wondered when might her luck run out. Heavy with child, she wondered whether she’d live to see her family grow. She recognised this man, this killer. _Daud_. She knew his face and the forbidding expression in his eyes. And never had she said a word. She kept this secret from Corvo, through all of it; as all of her secrets seemed to come back to Karnaca. She had thought of him often, after. The day the the royal party had set sail back to Dunwall, she’d foolishly hoped he’d be there, at the docks. (He wasn’t.)

And now, she knew he was in Gristol. She wanted to see him again. To talk to him, to hear his gruff advice. Would he still tell her the same things, accuse her of the same idealism?

If only he’d find her. She wanted to ask him why he’d come.

But even as she realised, one day, the burden that he carried, she knew that there was something inside him that she would never learn to unravel. In the beginning, she had scorned him, had not understood the way he seemed bent on inspiring pain and fear in her. He was a murderer. Worse, a murderer for coin. The disquiet in her heart settled none for the memory of how she had first found him, in that alley, perched atop a bleeding, dying man who had defied him and paid the price. Yet here, in Dunwall, he had begun to make his mark with it, with the certainty that murder served as employment. All the coin in this city had blood on it, it seemed; and Jessamine hid her disgust and hurt behind her concern for her city.

He would not come to her. Perhaps he was afraid. Perhaps he did not want enough to run the risk of her rejection.

The years had been long, and Jessamine, First of her Name, was no more the young, inexperienced ruler she had been. And still, she longed for freedom.

***

**1836**

“Where are you going, old man?” Lurk asked from the tall doors to his office and quarters at the Chamber.

He turned, cut her a turn glance.

“No tailing me tonight, Billie,” he said lowly. It was a habit he probably ought to have broken her of right when she’d started — but the fact that she had dared to in the first had made her the natural choice as his second as soon as she came of age. The other Masters, like Rulfio and Rinaldo, may have raised their brows, but had not openly challenged Daud’s decision. They’d given Lurk plenty of shit for it, though. She’d taken it with apathy belied by her ambition when she eagerly shed her blue oilskin for the distinctive red that how only Daud and his lieutenant wore.

Lurk knew enough of what had led Daud to many, if not most, of his choices over the past seven years. But there were things she had no notion of — his dubious loyalty, for one, and the desire, first and foremost, to protect. He’d blamed his own politics, and choosing who deserved the blade. Choosing which contracts to take, and which to bid on. She had perceived his bias, soon enough, but he’d kept his answers noncommittal. She’d asked about the Empress, too. And Daud had snarled like a caged beast. He knew that, sooner rather than later, she would have sought for ways to remove him. Betrayal was expected. Even if hers would hurt, he knew that some would call it sweet, when it came. Provided that he lived to see it. Now. He had somewhere to go she could not follow. She wouldn’t understand — and worse, where he was going, what he knew her capable of doing would only serve to get her killed. His own fate may be just as swiftly decided — either by Attano’s blade, or the Empress’ judgment.

He was not afraid of death.

He was afraid of _her_.

The closer he drew to the Tower District, the heavier the certainty in his heart. The guilt, his own remorse, the lives he took and the simple truth that he’d done it all for her — what was it truly worth? Years, over a decade of killing. He felt as though leading himself to the gallows, wearing a desperate plea around his neck for a noose. Even if she hated him, perhaps she would accept the bargain. At least, until he could rest knowing that Burrows was done away with, blinded by steel, and the rest of cabal either dead or locked in Coldridge. Daud had reached the water lock just as the sun set. He wondered whether he would see it rise. Whether through the bars of a Coldridge prison cell, or by her side. Or bleeding out at her feet.

His heart as heavy as his conscience, he made his way across the Tower grounds, undetected. He’d studied the plans for weeks, marking out a route. At the end of each day, he locked the blueprints safely away, and when he was done, he burnt them to ash. The Whalers were restricted to patrols in Rudshore tonight. If he disappeared, no-one would know where. He had left instructions, in the event of his capture — and the first was _never_ to come searching. He slipped in through a window on the second floor. Her office was easy enough to find from here - and the balcony overlooking the Great Hall far too easily accessible. He could see her, through the Void; her and Attano. They were alone. The guard on rotation would round the corer and see Daud in about five seconds. He took a deep breath. Let it go. Then, he transversed.

He perched, unfolded himself, his boots silent on the marble floor He stepped inside, his hands up and in front of him.

“Steady,” he rasped.

Attano drew his sword, his face a mask of a calm sort of panic — the face of a man ready for the moment when it came, yet still half out of his wits when it did.

“Bodyguard,” Daud said, a pleasant warning, but his eyes weren’t on Attano. They were on her.

For thirteen years, he had not known what to say to her if he ever saw her again. He still knew not how now. So he said nothing. She watched him. Time remained unbent but still seemed to stop as he took in the changes of her face, her eyes, the cut of her clothes. He wondered whether his eyes were pleading. The moment held. And then, it snapped.

The Empress stepped forward, and she raised her hand, reaching out, towards Attano.

“Corvo,” she said, but her gaze, too, was locked with Daud’s. “It’s alright.”

Attano was _stunned_. He refused to look away from Daud, but it was obvious he wanted to whirl around to stare at her.

“Your Majesty,” he said, and Daud had to admire the wherewithal of the man. To keep up the pretence, flimsy as it may be, in front of him—

“I know,” she said, and Daud’s blood rushed in his ears. “I know him.”

The expression on Attano’s face changed. Daud almost pitied him. _She’__s__ not told him_.

“I know him,” she repeated firmly, and moving out from behind her desk, past Attano, she walked up to Daud. She stopped, just out of reach.

Daud swallowed.

“You said I’d be lucky to see my children grow,” she said, her voice thick with some emotion he could not fathom.

He shook his head. “No,” he said, recalling his own words to her that day as though they’d been branded into him. “I told you you’d be lucky to never see me again.”

Her gaze, imperceptibly, shifted. “And I did not believe you.”

“What is this?” Attano interrupted, angrily now. “Jess? When was this? When did you _see him_?” No doubt Attano’s mind was currently misconstruing everything the Courier had written about the Knife of Dunwall’s “allegiances” in the past few years.

“In Karnaca,” Daud spared her the answer. It should be him drawing the bodyguard’s ire. “Thirteen years ago.”

“We had just landed at the harbour,” the Empress said now. “And I ran away. He found me. He protected me.”

“Him?” Attano could barely believe his ears, nor his eyes, that much was clear. “_Him_? And you… in all these years, you know. _You kept me from_—“

He stopped himself there, but the implications set Daud’s heart to beating faster in his chest.

“He won’t do me any harm,” she said, and cut off Attano’s protests with a quick, “if he wanted to, he would have already.”

Attano glared at Daud. Daud shrugged.

“I knew where to find her for thirteen years, bodyguard. There’s a reason I haven’t made the trip before,” he said.

“And why is that?” _she_ cut in, stepping closer now. Close enough to touch.

Daud’s heart faltered as she reached out — for his cheek, the marred reminder of an altercation with a Warfare Overseer called Hume. A long time ago. Her touch was light, and behind her, Attano sucked in a breath at the same syncopated cadence as Daud. Void, she was fearless.

“That one is new,” she murmured, and her eyes spoke of sorrow. For him?

“How did you come by it?”

“Overseer attack on a hideout. Long before Rudshore,” he answered. He dared not move a muscle, and not merely for Attano still looking fairly murderous behind her.

Her eyes roamed his features. He had no notion of how he was looking at her, except perhaps with a slightly drugged expression. She let go of his cheek. “You realise,” she began, “that in your labouring to protect me from becoming more like you, you only made me more acutely aware that you were right.”

“Was I?”

“Good alone does not bear the crown,” she returned softly.

Daud felt as though the Void inside him were tearing him apart, even as it crowed at her words. He saw only her. “I did it all for you,” he croaked.

“I know,” she said, putting another nail in his casket. “It was difficult, at first. To recognise your name, your face. To know who you’d become. To keep the secret.” Attano shifted, but Daud barely noticed.

“I couldn’t come,” he said.

She nodded. “Perhaps it was right, for you to stay away.” She smiled, just a little, a hint of that teasing smile she’d left him with so long ago, but it held a wistful edge. “But I still missed you.”

Daud’s blood rushed from head to toe and he felt as though he might collapse, there, at her feet. He could barely breathe, much less speak.

“You could have been my Spymaster,” she said, and Attano scoffed. She didn’t turn.

_Perhaps I should have_, Daud thought. But that was a fantasy to unravel for another night. When he did not answer, still held himself back, she looked up at him. Suppose she could see it in his eyes. Why he’d come.

“So what do we do?” she asked.

“Leave it to me,” he said. Was all he could say.

Attano, finally, broke. “What?”

“Leave it to me,” Daud repeated, and for the first time his eyes left hers. “You have, for twelve years.”

Attano looked ready to draw his sword again.

“Who’s involved?” the Empress asked instead.

“Burrows,” Daud began, watching Attano’s face for a reaction. If the bodyguard distrusted him then two could play at that game. “His mistress, Waverly Boyle. High Overseer Campbell. And Custis and Morgen Pendleton, holed up in the Golden Cat, as usual.”

Attano had gone pale, and silent. The Empress, too.

“We were right,” she breathed. “About the Plague.”

Daud nodded. “And why else should your Spymaster seek to deprive you of your Protector at such a peculiar time — to send him around the Isles, begging for help? No offence, Attano, but that’s not your area of expertise.”

Even as the Empress sent him a disapproving look, Attano seemed to, inexplicably, relax.

“None taken, actually,” he said.

Daud raised a brow.

“When?”

“Tonight.”

“All of them?” Attano asked critically.

He nodded.

“Your men?”

“I came alone.”

“What if you fail?” Attano demanded.

“I won’t.”

“Daud—“

“I won’t.” He stared at her. “I won’t fail you now.”

She set a hand on his arm. “I know.”

***

When Daud made his way out, he knew he left her alone to reconcile this mess with Attano. It was nothing he could help with, yet he still felt like a coward. Perhaps a nice duel would have helped Attano over the shock, he thought drily. While he hoped — because it was imperative to the Empress’ safety and, he supposed, her continued happiness — that this would not bring irreparable damage to their relationship, he could hardly afford waiting around for the die to fall.

He had work to do.

“Daud,” she’d said just as he’d turned away from her. “If there is another way…”

He’d known what she was asking: to find a better way than death. To unmask, rather than to kill. To reveal their treason for what it was, rather than burying the secret and leaving _her_ with a dozen bodies and wide open to the accusations that would follow — that had already reached her, for nigh on a decade.

“Even Burrows,” he’d asked lowly.

“Even him.”

Daud clenched his jaw. “I’ll see what I can find.”

And then, he’d gone. Back out into the dark.

***

In the end, there was Void to pay. Daud made his way through Dunwall that night methodically, quietly; a shadow rising from the ground.

The Pendletons, victims of a most unfortunate accident at the Golden Cat — Daud would send Madame Prudence a satchel of coin to cover the repairs, and a doctor for the girls. No-one would miss the twins, least of all their softheaded opportunist of a brother, who was sure to make the most of his new-found freedom; skint-broke through the family still was. Daud did hope that the Empress would forgive him their grateful death.

From there, he moved on, across the district to Holger Square. It was no hardship for Daud to infiltrate, and drag Campbell into his own interrogation room. And when he branded him a heretic and took his little Black Book, Daud knew that Captain Curnow of the City Watch would make good use of it. As it was, Campbell would not be found before the morning, and the Abbey was too cowardly to act without a plan. There would be no reprisals before the Feast of Painted Kettles.

From the distillery at Bottle Street, Daud moved across the river. Waverly Boyle would be reminded by her true lover’s severed head on the pillow next to her that she was playing games with forces far beyond her control.

And finally, Burrows. It was fortunate that it was not customary for the Royal Spymaster to reside at Dunwall Tower, or this could have become… awkward.

She had asked him for a better way. Rifling through the Spymaster’s safe while the shrivelled prick argued with his pet, General Tobias, in the other room, Daud was caught off guard by the sheer paranoia of the man — he’d kept _everything_. Every note from every dead drop, every contract. Of course, Daud kept all those records himself, but he was not the one attempting to uphold a façade of respectability. Much less, plausible deniability. For him, these things were simply paperwork. For Burrows, they were… trophies. With what Burrows was housing here, he’d diligently dug his own grave.

And Daud would make sure he got it. Six foot deep and _lonely_.

***

When he returned to the Tower, there was blood and gunpowder on his coat, against his best intentions; and the air around him tasted of copper and singed flesh (the latter fully in line with his intentions). The room was silent as he slipped inside, but Attano was still there. He looked wary when Daud stepped up to him and held out a bundle of audiographs.

“Play these,” he rumbled. “Play them so the city hears them. They’ll bring Burrows down.”

Attano looked to the Empress. She nodded. Gritting his teeth, Attano took the bundle from Daud’s hand with a decent effort at allowing no connection between them, and left the study.

Daud stood, breathing heavily, in the middle of the room. The Empress got up once again and crossed to him.

“I’ll take that reward now,” he dragged up the words. Whatever it would be. He was hers, now. Did she know it?

“I remember you denied me twice, that night.” She meant the money — and the kiss.

He’d not forgotten. He nodded. It was all he could do.

She took him by the hand, and led him over to the armchair by the fire. It had almost gone out, in the early morning hours now. As if directed by invisible strings, he moved to her side, watched as she sat, looking up at him expectantly, still holding onto his hand; and then she quietly gasped as he knelt. He knelt at her side, let go of her hand, and leaned his forehead against the outside of her thigh.

Perhaps it wasn’t him. Perhaps it was all that was left of him.

“You came back,” she murmured.

He nodded. He would have to protect her, now, from within these walls, against the consequences of the night. He would need Attano’s help, if he was willing to extend it. He would need to explain it all to Billie, he thought. To all of them. He wondered whether they might follow. Whether Billie would… take a side, in this.

“Will you stay, this time?” she asked.

So long, he had waited. Thirteen years, working in the shadows, for uncertain reward and no notion of an ending. Here, it might be, for him. For better or for worse. Once again, he nodded.

She put her hand on the back of his neck, then, between the collar of his coat and his shirt. Sharply, he drew breath. She squeezed, gently, and he nearly choked on a sob.

“Jessamine.”

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End credits: [Me And The Devil](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xd9LpME3jnk).


End file.
